


Hidden

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dogboys & Doggirls, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Magic, Mild Genital Torture, Mild Gore, Oral Sex, POV Character of Color, Romance, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Porthos grins and squeezes Treville's cock —And squeezes him —And squeezes just a little harder...Treville pushes into his hand and growls, quiet and promising —"You like that, Treville?"Treville pants. "You know I do. What's your idea, son? What's... tell me what's on your mind.""Well... I've been thinking," Porthos says, and strokes while he squeezes —Gets another growl — "What. Have you been thinking about?""Us, sir. How much I like what we do. What... what you do to me," Porthos says, and shivers a little —"We can start right —""I was thinking..." And Porthos licks his lips. "Maybe... we can have more?"





	1. He will *glare* at you until you're damned well comfortable.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts), [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Vague, AU-ized mentions of things from S1-2. Takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: I started this little story several months ago as a direct reaction to all of Treville's dishonesty in "that we should make merry, and be glad". It stalled out on me before I could finish, though, and I couldn't get back into it until now, when Pixie pointed out that I *really* needed to write some sub POV for my own peace of mind. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love and affection to Pixie, Melly, Spice, and, of course, my Jack for audiencing, encouragement, helpful suggestions, and a great deal of petting.

It's Porthos's first time here, at the de Tréville estates. 

He's wondering if it shouldn't be his *last*, considering how grim *Treville* is — 

How — 

How *dark* — 

And, all right, the man can have his moods — can't they all? But this is...

Well, he's Treville, and he's been Porthos's lover for a few weeks now — and they haven't exactly been taking things slowly, by Porthos's measures — and — 

He'll always be the Captain. 

He makes his own *weather*, wherever he goes, whatever he *does*, and, right now, there's one *hell* of a gloomy storm brewing behind those pale blue eyes, even though all he's doing is nursing a brandy in front of the fire with Porthos. 

Just — 

No, no, Porthos isn't going to stall. The sun'll be going down in a few hours, and just because the Captain had given both of them a few decidedly unauthorized hours off to start their holiday here early — 

Well, Porthos can get an early start *back*, and that's that. 

"Treville."

Treville winces, glares at his glass, sets it down, glares at the *fire* like it had personally offended his *mother* — 

Glares at the *room* — 

Glares at the *rugs* — 

*Right*. "*Sir* —" 

"*Shit*, don't — don't." 

Porthos licks his lips and sets his own brandy down. "I don't have to be here." 

Treville inhales sharply and whirls to face him, eyes wide. "You — do you... want to leave?"

And that sounds like...

Porthos frowns — 

*Regroups* — 

"I... do you need... if you *told* me what you needed, Porthos —" 

"Well." Porthos tries on a smile. "You could talk to me." About whatever's on your *mind* — but. 

They don't — 

They don't do that quite so much. "You could... relax a little."

Treville licks his lips. He's *gripping* his glass — 

"Maybe go easy on that glass —" 

"Porthos..." 

"Yeah?" Maybe stop making me feel like I *ought* to call you *sir*... 

Treville looks around the room again — 

Winces — 

And turns back to him. "I'm not..." 

"Comfortable?" 

Treville looks — into him. "Are you?" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. With you like this? "Treville..." 

Treville nods. "I've an idea," he says, and drinks off his brandy. 

Porthos drinks off his own. "I'm all ears." 

"What you are is still thinking of *sirring* me —" 

Porthos blushes — 

"But I've earned that. I *plan* on doing better," Treville says, standing and moving to offer his hand to Porthos. 

Really, now. Porthos eyes that hand good and speculatively...

Licks his lips...

Spreads his *legs*...

And Treville — laughs, just a short little bark of a thing, but much, much better. "Oh — son. I want a bed. Right now." 

"*Right* now?" I think you want some *talking* first...

"I want *you*," Treville says, and his eyes are hot and hungry and — just a little wild. The way they get when he's not hiding. 

Not trying to hide. 

Porthos nods and takes his hand — 

Lets himself get *hauled* to his feet — 

Treville is bloody *strong* — 

Treville is — 

Is — 

But. 

"What are you thinking, son?" And Treville looks up at him from that nothing-distance he's given them — 

Treville flares his nostrils twice — he's trying to sniff the truth out of Porthos. 

And — it's not that Porthos ever *forgets* that Treville is really a dog, that the way his witchcraft works *makes* him more canine than not, but...

Treville spends a long damned time *hiding* that dog from everyone and everything. Porthos hadn't *guessed* until the first time they'd made love. Until they were in the *middle* of making love, and Treville was licking him and rumbling at him and *nipping* instead of kissing — 

Panting and *gleaming* at him with those wild eyes — 

"Son...? If you're not —" 

"No! No — I was just... thinking about the dog in you," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. 

Treville frowns. "You know... you know that if it's ever too much..." And he's backing *away* —

"*Fuck*, you're a mess today," Porthos blurts, and grabs him — 

"*Son* —" 

"*Treville*. I've an idea, too," Porthos says, and waggles his eyebrows. 

Treville laughs — painfully. "Porthos... we're neither of us —" 

"Right in the head. I know. I *know*. But uh... we could... talk about it?" And Porthos cups Treville's cheek and turns him enough that they're facing each other properly. 

Treville raises an eyebrow at him. 

"Yeah, I *know* we don't do that, but —" 

"I want you to be comfortable here. Happy. That's all." 

Porthos blinks. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "A man in my position... sometimes gets a trifle hung up on how people in other positions might... feel." 

Porthos looks at Treville. Hard. 

Treville grins. It's small, but — "No, son?" 

"*Treville*. You bloody send me to *palaces* all the bloody *time*." 

"For your *job* —" 

"*Exactly*. I can't fuck up or laze about or be *myself* —" 

"I. It would kill me if you couldn't be yourself here," Treville says — almost *growls* — and that... 

That was a little more *intense* than his usual — 

"I'm — I need you to be comfortable," Treville says, almost formally, and uses his greater *power* to look *away* from Porthos's eyes. 

Porthos — 

He wants those *eyes* — 

But he already knows what it looks like when Treville is buying control. When he *needs* to buy control, for reasons of his own. 

Just what had it *cost* to shove the dog down for twenty years?

Porthos stops trying to turn Treville back and strokes his chest through his leathers, instead — 

"Son —" 

"I'm comfortable enough to do this..." 

Treville pants, tongue peeking out a little — 

And Porthos strokes down to his crotch with one hand, cupping that honestly doggish cock and giving it a nice squeeze. It starts to thicken and rise immediately. "I'm comfortable enough to —"

"Come. To my bedroom."

"Well, that's the interesting thing, Treville..." 

Treville blinks and *then* turns back to face him.

Porthos grins and squeezes his cock — 

And squeezes him —

And squeezes just a little harder...

Treville pushes into his hand and growls, quiet and promising — 

"You like that, Treville?" 

Treville pants. "You know I do. What's your idea, son? What's... tell me what's on your mind." 

"Well... I've been thinking," Porthos says, and strokes while he squeezes — 

Gets another growl — "What. Have you been thinking about?"

"Us, sir. How much I like what we do. What... what you do to me," Porthos says, and shivers a little — 

"We can start right —" 

"I was thinking..." And Porthos licks his lips. "Maybe... we can have more?" 

And, just for a moment, Treville's eyes gleam that *hot* blue — 

That wild and *excited* blue — 

Porthos *grins* — 

Pushes closer, even though he's crushing his arms between them — 

But Treville tamps himself down. He — 

Porthos can almost feel it — "Don't —" 

"What... what do you mean by more?"

Shit — "Well — I don't know —" 

Treville stiffens — 

"But I think *you* have some ideas —" 

"Son —" 

"And *I* have — just a *few* ideas, not really fully-formed or — shit, Treville, it's just that I like *everything* we do together, and I want — I think we can — go a little further. Or a *lot* further." 

Treville growls *hard* — 

He looks like he's in *pain* for a moment — 

He — 

"Treville —" 

"I need you to. Speak plain." 

"Meaning you *really* have ideas —" 

"*Porthos* — I. No. I apologize," Treville says, stepping *back*, just like *that* — 

"*Oi* —" 

"Don't —" Treville winces. "I'm *happy* with you!" 

"I *get* that — I've *gotten* that. But — you want more, too, right? You *think* we can have more." 

"I don't know... if it's just. My lust. Please tell me what you want." 

And Porthos *thinks* for a moment — "You don't want me to be uncomfortable." 

"*Never* —" 

"Then... let's go to your bedroom and *talk*, eh? Just... talk. For a little while," Porthos says, and opens his tunic a little more. Lets himself breathe. 

And Treville very *obviously* breathes *him*.

It — 

It makes Porthos think of the first time, when Porthos was lingering in the empty barracks, waiting for Athos to join him — 

Putting off washing up just a little longer so he could do it *with* Athos, have that little bit of extra companionship — 

And then —

And then the Captain had been there, asking after him the way he did, making sure his freshly-commissioned Musketeer was in good trim — 

But also flaring his nostrils. 

And looking just a little more... more, than just the Captain. 

So Porthos had *kept* waiting to wash up, because he'd never been a fool, and he'd known what looks like that *could* mean for a *long* time, and he'd — 

Well, first he'd just wanted to *see* — 

See if the Captain — the *Captain* — really *would* — 

Especially if Porthos moved closer — 

Smiled a little wider — 

A little more openly — 

Let himself *show* how randy *he* was getting for the hardest man of *all* — 

And Treville had flared his nostrils *again* — 

("Are you sniffing me, sir...?") And Porthos had made sure to make that sound *exactly* like he didn't mind, like he wanted it, like he was happy to let Treville do it all he *wanted* — 

Treville had shuddered, just once. And looked like he was... making a decision. 

Porthos could guess what it was. He'd jerked his chin at Treville. ("We're all alone here, sir. If Athos isn't here, yet, he's decided to train himself until the sun is *all* the way down. We can —" 

"Porthos —" 

"I want to. And I think you do, too. I'll never ask you for *anything* —") 

And then Treville's hard, scarred, *strong* hand had been in his hair — 

He'd yanked Porthos *close* — 

They were breathing each other's *breaths* — 

("Fuck, *yeah*, sir —" 

"Don't sir me. Not when — we're like this." 

"Uh — no?") 

And Treville had grinned like a *boy* — and licked Porthos's mouth. "I'll teach you better.") 

Porthos grins and shivers — 

Opens his tunic a little *more* — 

And watches Treville watch *him*. "I was thinking about our first time, Treville," he says, and nods toward the door of the study. "Take me to your bedroom?"

Treville growls and strokes through the sweat at the base of Porthos's throat with two fingers. 

"Oh —" 

And then he *sniffs* his fingers *thoroughly* before licking them. 

"Shit, that's never not *hot* —" 

Treville grins almost secretively and cups Porthos's arm before leading them out. "You were thinking about me sniffing you." 

"Well — *yeah*." 

"You like when I do that." 

"I *love* when you do that." 

Treville nods thoughtfully. "I'd do it all the time, if I could." 

"You like the way I smell that much?" 

"You smell... perfect. Rich. Raw. *Thick* —" Treville growls. "I'm no poet." 

Porthos licks his lips and follows Treville at a *quick* walk through the halls. "You've loved sniffing your men — and boys." 

"I have, but..." And Treville shakes his head. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Treville?" 

"Your scents are... different," he says, and sounds bitterly angry with himself *for* saying it. 

"Uh — you don't have to *seduce* me —" 

"I'm *not*. I *can't*. I'm no good at —" Treville growls again. "Your scents are different. And I've never known how to — describe that." 

And Treville wants him to be comfortable, and comfortable *here* — with him. 

Porthos licks his lips — 

"Got it." 

"I — you don't have to —" 

"Don't slow *down*, Treville. We're both... saying a little more than we usually do, eh?" 

Treville looks away — but he speeds right back up again. 

"I like that," Porthos says, in as soothing a voice as he can manage. "I want that."

"I... brought you here for a reason." 

"I'm looking forward to that nice, big bed —" 

Treville growls instead of laughing. 

"No?" 

"I want to speak to you, as well," Treville says, and it's *gritted* out. He makes it sound like a bloody *threat*. 

"Uh..." 

"Take that at face value, please." 

"Right, but —" 

"*Please*." 

"*Treville* —" 

"I'm thinking... of how *many* things I'd like to do with you, son." 

"I — oh. Right now?" 

"Yes." 

"On a... they're all just rolling through your mind?" 

"Yes." 

Porthos licks his lips. "You know, it's *your* bloody manor, Treville. We could *jog*." 

Treville *coughs* a laugh. "Almost. Almost there." 

"Are you *behaving*?" 

"Son —" 

"Is that what you're sodding doing?" 

"I —" 

"Because you *could* be shoving your muzzle —" 

"*Fuck* —" And Treville *slams* Porthos against the wall between two very tall, very pretty vases — 

They rock a little, but don't fall — 

Which is good — 

"You haven't had me against a wall, yet..." 

"Is that 'more' for you, son?" 

"Yes and no — and I know I'm teasing you, but — I really haven't thought this *through*, yet. I need your *help*." 

"I'll help you. Talk." And Treville splays one hand on Porthos's chest over his sweaty shirt and cups his *throat* with the other hand, and — 

And Porthos blushes, just blushes, because — 

"Son..." 

"This. This is more. This — you don't *order* me when we're making love." 

"No. I don't. I —" 

"You could. You... you really bloody could." 

Treville flushes — 

*Squeezes* Porthos's throat — 

*Claws* at Porthos's *chest* — 

"*Shit*, Treville —" 

"Sometimes... it seems like you want to call me 'sir' even when we..." Treville *snarls*. "Do you?" 

"You don't *want* me to — *hnk* —" 

And Treville is squeezing Porthos's throat *hard* — 

*Gleaming* at him — 

Utterly ignoring the chambermaids hurrying down the hall behind him — and *obviously* expecting Porthos to do the same. 

So Porthos does it. Just — just *relaxes* into the grip on his throat — 

Just *lets* Treville — 

It's not like he didn't *already* trust him — and he can see the moment when Treville feels him giving in, feels him focusing, feels him giving *over*. 

Treville's lips part just a little and his eyes widen even while they're *gleaming* and he — 

He leans in *closer* — 

"Son..." 

Porthos nods as much as he *can* with that hand on his throat — 

"Shh, just relax." 

Yes, sir, yes — 

"Are you sirring me in your head again?" 

Fuck — 

"Shh, it's all right," Treville says, and strokes Porthos's face with his free hand, caresses his *cheeks*. "We both know 'sir' can mean a lot of things between two men with a certain fondness for each other. Don't we."

Fuck fuck fuck — 

And Treville loosens his *grip* — 

He — 

He loosens his *grip* — 

Porthos has to *answer* — "Yes."

"Yes. *Sir*." 

Porthos's cock *jerks* — "Sir — I mean — *Treville* —" 

"Shh. We both know that one of the things 'more' means is you wanting to be my..." And Treville licks his lips. "Well, let's talk this out, son. What do you want?" 

Porthos blushes hard — "I'd like — I want to know what *you* want." 

"You know, I actually thought this would be difficult to say." 

"But... it isn't?" Porthos shifts on his feet in the tiny space Treville has left him. "What *is* it?" 

"I want everything with you. I want — the way you *respond*..." Treville growls. "There's nothing I don't want to try, son. It's all.. a roil in my head. It's all *been* a roil — I can usually hold it back —" 

"*Don't* hold it back!" 

Treville grunts. "I can't make you uncomfortable, son. I *can't*." And there's a plea in those eyes, but there's also an *order* — 

Porthos wants to *take* it — 

Wants to get right down on his knees and — 

But that's just it. Porthos licks his lips. "You won't. You won't make me too uncomfortable —" 

"You don't know that —" 

"I know you won't chase me *away*," Porthos says, and blushes hard — 

Treville hadn't even *said* — but. 

But. 

There's a desperate look in his eyes as he searches *Porthos's* eyes — 

There's a desperate *feel* to him — 

Almost a *scent* — 

"Fuck, sir, you make me want to get down on my knees and *stay* there, but —" 

"But *what*?" 

"Just — you won't chase me away. You won't. I'm right here. And — I want to know you. I want to *feel* you." 

Treville narrows his eyes and leans in — 

Porthos leans in, too — 

"No. Against the wall."

"*Fuck* — I —" 

"Do you have an objection, son...?" 

And that's — a real question. Something — Treville wants to know. "I still — I need to know more about this. About this from *you*." 

Treville leans in farther and nuzzles Porthos's mouth, letting him feel that soft beard, those soft lips —

Porthos moans and nuzzles back cautiously, keeping the back of his head against the wall — 

"Good boy," Treville says against his mouth. 

"Thank you, sir —" 

Treville rumbles. "You need to know more... before you can fully submit yourself to me." 

Porthos wants to lick Treville's mouth the way he's done before — 

The way he's done before to get him *hotter* — 

He doesn't know if that's *allowed* — 

"Son. Answer." 

"Fuck — I'm sorry. I got distracted —" 

"Tell me how." 

"Yes, sir. I wanted to lick your mouth, and I — I didn't know if that was allowed. Also, we're still in the *hallway* —" 

"And here we'll stay until I say different," Treville says... and lifts both eyebrows. "Unless that makes you uncomfortable in bad ways." 

And that... answers a question. That — 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. 

"Yes, sir, I understand —" 

"Tell me what you understand," Treville says, and pushes a hand deep into Porthos's hair — 

Grips — 

Strokes over Porthos's Adam's apple with the thumb of his other hand — 

Porthos swallows and swallows and — "I understand — you still want me comfortable. You — you're always going to want me comfortable." 

"Yes, son, perfect," Treville says, and strokes through Porthos's hair — 

And presses just *beneath* Porthos's Adam's apple — 

Porthos gurgles, cock jerking again — 

Treville's nostrils flare — "You're allowed to touch me, son... right up until I forbid you." 

Porthos *moans* — 

Licks Treville's mouth — 

Cups his hard hips and tries to pull him *closer* — Treville doesn't let him.

Treville *smiles* at him. "You want me closer, son?" 

"Yes. Yes, please, sir —" 

"You want my body pressed to yours?" 

Porthos groans — "Yes, sir, I —" 

"Like our first time, son? Rutting like boys in the south barracks? Listening with half an ear to see if anyone was coming, just in case we were about to get caught with our trousers round our knees...?" 

"Uhh..." 

Up go those eyebrows. "No?" 

"I wasn't really listening to anything but the noises you were making, sir." 

"Really, now." 

"You were *growling*, sir. Just — just *constantly*. Any other man would've been grunting or maybe moaning, but you sounded like you wanted to eat me *alive*." 

"Well." And Treville grins. "There was a reason for that, son." 

Porthos grins back — and slides down the wall a little, spreading his legs and tilting his head back. 

"Is that so..." 

"Love the way you eat me, sir. Love the way you — nn. Take me apart and put me back *together* again." 

"Is that what made you want this, son? The way I... devour you?"

Porthos winces with lust — 

Thinks *helplessly* of being bent over Treville's desk and *licked* — 

Licked and licked and *fucked* with that tongue — and that's not actually what he's talking about. "I... you always touch me like you want *more*." 

"More. Hm. There's that word again..." 

"Sorry, sir, I'll do better —" 

"Shh. You could feel me, couldn't you." 

Porthos blinks. "Feel, sir?" 

Treville strokes through his hair more, cups his face with his other hand, strokes his *mouth* — 

"Oh, that's so good, sir —" 

"You like to be petted..." 

"Yes, sir, yes, I do, sir —" 

"You'll get what you want — if only because my hands have *ached* to stroke you for hours at a time." 

"Fuck —" 

"But. You know I'm an earth-mage." 

"Yes, sir. I've known — since I've known you were a witch." 

"And you could feel something not altogether human about me even before I let the — dog out of the bag. Couldn't you," Treville says, and keeps petting him. Keeps — 

Keeps *stroking* — 

"Answer, son." 

Porthos moans again — "Yes, sir. I've just... the witch who mostly raised me after my mum died, she said I had a little earth-mage in me, too." 

Treville nods. "Not too much, but... a little. It would be a foolish mistake — a *stupid* mistake — to pretend we *weren't* feeling what we were feeling about each other." 

"Sir...?" 

"We're kin, just by us both being aligned with the earth and all of *Her* power, son." 

"Oh — oh, right — I do know that, sir —" 

"Yes?" And Treville raises his eyebrows again — 

He doesn't stop *petting* — 

It's so hard to *think* — 

But Porthos won't mess this up. "I'm — you're saying I can... guess some things better about you. That it's not guessing. And you can do the same about me." 

"That's right, son. And you could tell I wanted... more." 

"*Yes*, sir. And you knew — didn't you?" 

Treville licks his lips — 

And then leans in and licks Porthos's entire *face* — 

And throat — 

And the part of Porthos's chest he can *reach* through his open *shirt*, and Porthos is *groaning*, arching into it, taking — 

"You feel so *good*, sir —" 

"Every time you've said that to me — or something like it — I've dreamed of pushing things just a little farther. Or a lot farther," Treville says, and nips at Porthos's pulse-point — 

"You — you could *feel* me —" 

"But what if I could only feel my own hunger? My own *greed*," Treville says, and *bites* there — 

"Please, sir, *please* —" 

Treville *growls* — 

*Sucks* — 

Pulls *back* — "Please what, mm?" 

"Please more, please — I don't really know — I mean, the fantasies I've had like this are really *basic*." 

"Are they..." And Treville licks up from Porthos's collarbone to his chin — 

Musses Porthos's beard with that long, strong tongue — 

"Fuck —" 

"Are they basic enough to drive you wild, son...? Or are they *too* basic for that." 

"When it's you, they drive me *insane*, sir," Porthos says, and blushes hard, shifting on his feet. "When it's just — just faceless men —" 

"You need it... harder?" 

"Not — not necessarily more *pain*, but —" 

"Harder. Deeper. More of a... push." 

"*Yeah*, sir —" 

"And you don't know if that means you actually want that push, or not." 

"*That* —" 

"And you don't want to ask for it — *offer* it — in case you have to take it back." 

"Please — fuck — of *course* you know all of this already," Porthos says, laughing hard and grinning. "*Teach* me." 

Treville rumbles and grins — and steps back, cupping Porthos's arm again. "I'll teach you everything, son. Let's go." 

"Fuck — to your bedroom, sir?"

"Yes, son. You're going to spend a *lot* of time there this holiday." 

Porthos shivers and follows.


	2. But talking is also an option. If you *like* that sort of thing.

Porthos is quiet beside him, but less thoughtful than excited. Pleased. *Happy*. 

He — 

Treville is thinking of their third time, which was their second time in his office. 

Treville is thinking of how it had felt to lean back in his chair and honestly, hungrily, *greedily* look Porthos *over* — 

Look his *lover* over, this amazing and talented and bold young soldier who had somehow chosen *him* — 

Chosen the broken-down, old — 

But he'd felt anything but old when Porthos had grinned at him and reached for his own belts with a *hopeful* look in his eyes — 

He'd felt — 

He remembers — very clearly — asking himself if Porthos had known that he was asking for permission. 

He remembers tightening his grip on the arms of his chair to stop himself from opening his *mouth* just then, to stop himself — 

("Sir...?" 

"Don't do that, son.") 

And Porthos had blushed, blushed like a boy instead of a young man, blushed and ducked his *head*, just for a moment — 

Had he been thinking of this?

Dreaming about it? 

*Wanting* it? 

("Sorry, I — *Treville*. You just had... kind of a 'sir' look on your face." 

"Did I, now." 

"I —" 

"I suppose we're just going to have to do something about that, son..." 

"Shit —" 

"Why don't you come round here and sit down, son...." 

"On — on the *desk*?" 

And Treville had licked his lips. 

Slowly.

In the end, sucking Porthos's cock had led naturally to eating his jiggly arse to *spreading* that arse and *opening* it with slick fingers — of *course* Porthos had brought a pot of pomade with him — and by then... 

By then, Treville couldn't wait, at all. 

He hadn't knotted Porthos that time, though. 

Not with only pomade to ease the way. 

He'd sent Porthos home *whistling*... and spent the rest of the night aching and cursing and throbbing and utterly failing to get any work done... until he'd vowed to himself to keep at least *two* pots of oil in easy reach of his person at all times. 

He's kept that vow. 

He *could've* had Porthos up against that wall. 

Or on these stairs — 

Or against *that* wall — 

Or that one — 

"What are you thinking on, sir? That smile makes you look *starved*."

Well. Treville leads Porthos into his bedroom suite, and they disarm themselves in the sitting room, because this was his father's suite before him, and his father believed in having plenty of space for weapons. 

Porthos gives him a queer look for all the hooks and shelves and cubbies —

Treville promises himself to talk about it later. "I was thinking about all the places in this manor I could fuck you blind, son." 

"Oh — *shit*, sir," Porthos says, and starts stripping himself *quickly*. 

Treville has no ability to put a check on that reaction. He's stripping himself, too, after all. "We need to talk first, though." 

"What — more? I mean — yes, sir —" 

"Don't stop stripping." 

"No, sir —" 

"Tell me about your basic fantasies. Tell me about the ones that drive you *wild*," Treville says, and puts his socks with the laundry, nodding to Porthos to tell him to do the same. 

"And — my smallclothes, too?" 

"Absolutely, son. I know you've been slicking them up for me." 

"Fuck — *yes*, sir —" 

Treville grins. "Good boy. Your fantasies. *Give* them to me." 

"Just — just being on my *knees* to you is enough to get me crazy —" 

"Even without either of us doing anything in particular?"

Porthos shudders whiles he walks to the laundry basket — and pauses. "Part of me just wants to pick up those dirty breeches of yours and *sniff*, sir." 

"Then why don't you." 

Porthos grunts — "I...." 

"Have you ever?" 

"Yeah, I. With — with women's clothes." 

"But never a man's," Treville says, and grins again. "I see. I won't make you shove your face in the dirtiest parts... right away." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Pick them up." 

Porthos pants — and bends to obey. "Yes, sir. I — yes —" 

"Sniff them at your own pace. Get *accustomed* to the scents." 

Porthos shivers and groans and — obeys, starting at just above the knee and working his way up — 

And up — 

And all the way up until he's sniffing and snuffling and moaning and — 

And Treville is growling. 

Helplessly. 

"Good boy..."

Porthos *sucks* at a spot Treville knows he'd left a little damp, and — 

And Treville is a young man again, if not a boy. "In the old days, I would sleep with Reynard's breeches wrapped firmly around my *face*, from time to time...." 

It breaks Porthos's *fugue*, and he looks to Treville with wide eyes and wet, parted lips — "Reynard? Was he... he was one of your brothers."

Treville growls again. The part of him enraged that Porthos doesn't already know this is enraged only at himself. "He was." And then he's... lost. He doesn't have words for Reynard, beautiful and mad Reynard, beautiful and *lost* Reynard — 

He needs *words* — 

Porthos has to know — doesn't he?

"Were you... closest to him? The way I am with Athos?" 

Treville winces. 

"Or — I don't have to ask, sir. I don't —" 

"I want you to." 

"You... do?" 

"I want you to ask, and I want nothing of the kind, because I want nothing to interrupt *our* time together, and I'm berating myself for not having the words to *answer* your questions if you *do* ask." 

Porthos inhales sharply and steps close. "If it helps, sir... I don't count it as an interruption. It's. It's um. More." 

Treville blinks — 

Lifts his nose — 

Porthos steps closer yet, naked and unashamed and so — so beautiful. 

And so *honest*. 

"It's true, sir. I promise it is —" 

"I can tell. I can..." And Treville pants and tugs the breeches out of Porthos's hand, dropping them in the basket. 

"Oh —" 

"I'm going to please you first, son. And then... I'll tell you a few tales." 

"Thank you, sir! For both!" 

"Come," Treville says, and leads them to the bedroom proper. 

"Should I —" 

"Answer questions. You never told me about what happens when you're on your *knees*, son," Treville says, and starts pacing around Porthos — 

Resists the urge to cup that sweet arse — 

Doesn't resist that urge, at *all* — 

Porthos gasps — "It — it's just the *feeling*. Knowing that I'm on my knees because you want me there, sir! Knowing that — that I'll *be* there until you say different!" 

Treville growls and *squeezes* that arse. "Noted. What else." 

"Yes, sir. Yes — hidings. Spankings —" 

"Really." 

"Fuck — yes, sir — I know — I mean — you don't have to —" 

"I want to." 

Porthos moans out a breath — 

"Are you on your hands and knees? Braced against a wall? Over my lap? Something else?" 

"All of it, sir!" 

"Which *especially*." And Treville leans in to lick Porthos's ear while still cupping his arse. 

Porthos groans — "The last two! You can — with me against the wall you can — you can talk into my *ear*." 

"You've always liked the talking..." 

"You're bloody *good* at it, sir!" 

Treville grins. "You're welcome." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"What else." 

"You just — using my face. My throat. While I've got my hands tied — or just locked behind my back —" 

"Which is better?" 

"I don't know, sir!" 

Treville pants —

And *pants* — 

"Do you spend for that fantasy?" 

"All the time, sir! Really hard! Do you —" 

"Shh. What else." 

Porthos blushes — 

Blushes *deep* — 

Hangs his *head* — 

"Son." 

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry — I just —" 

"It's hard to talk about." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"It shames you." 

"It — maybe it shouldn't —" 

"Maybe...?" 

"I wouldn't — I'd *like* it if someone submitting to me told me they had this fantasy. I'd *never* let them be ashamed, sir!" 

"Then there's no maybe. Is there." 

Porthos blushes *harder* —" 

"There still is. Hmm," Treville says, and *rubs* Porthos's arse, getting all his calluses into it — 

"Oh — oh, *shit*, that feels so *good*, sir —" 

"I think you need something, son..." 

"I do, I really —" 

"I think you need to know you're not... alone." 

"What — sir?" 

Treville *shoves* his — human enough — tongue in Porthos's ear — 

"Nnh — so *wet* —" 

Treville laps and laps and pushes two fingers right down into Porthos's cleft — 

"*Yes*, sir!" 

Treville pulls *back* — "Good boy," he says, and rubs that musky-hot little pucker nice and *rough* with his fingertips — 

"Unh — *unh* —" 

"I love how sensitive you are. I love how you're always ready for *this* touch." 

"All — *all* of your touches, sir!" 

"Mm. Is that so...?" 

"*Yes*, sir!" 

"You know what I was ready for not long after I met Athos's father Laurent?" 

"What... what? I — sir?" 

Treville laughs hungrily and *presses* on that hole —

"HNH —" 

"Good boy. Laurent was my commanding officer — and my eldest, dearest brother — for nearly the entire time I knew him. He made *me* the Captain of the King's Musketeers, retired, and died with his wife — and my sister — Marie-Angelique in a stupid, *stupid* carriage accident less than a year later — but we're not talking about that." 

"Sir —" 

"Shh." 

Porthos shivers and nods — 

"We're talking about the fact that I fell in love with Laurent when I was *fourteen*... and not just any sort of love. I wanted to be on my knees to him. I *was* on my knees to him — even though he never asked for anything of the kind. There was nothing he *could* ask for that I would ever *refuse*, son. He *owned* me." 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"And when we did finally make love, when I was in my twenties and he was in his thirties... I made that very, very clear." 

"Oh... oh. Did he..."

"Yes, son?" 

"Did he... give you what you wanted?" 

"What I *needed*, son. What I *craved*. And, yes, son, he did. When he collared me... I felt like large swathes of my life — my world — made sense for the very first time." 

Another shiver — "Not... your whole life?" 

And a part of Treville is only thinking of his other sister, his *first* sister. 

His Amina-love, tall and strong and wise and stubborn and sharp and bold and raucous and so *funny* — 

His Amina-love, who'd disappeared without a trace with her unnamed babe — *their* babe — over a generation ago now, and — 

And Laurent had been there to help him grieve. 

Laurent had been there to give him *time* to search — search *hopelessly* — and. 

And he'd felt Amina die over twenty years ago now. Felt her energy fade and fade until it was just — gone. 

His *son* is still alive — somewhere. 

He has a name, and a life. 

His life-force is strong, even if nothing else about him is. 

And Treville will never know him.

"Sir...?" 

Treville licks Porthos's round little ear —

"Oh —" 

*Works* his hole with his calluses — 

"Oh, *please* —" 

"Something happened to me — to all of us — all those years ago, son. It made it impossible for anything to make our whole lives make sense." 

"But —" 

"Shh. I'll tell you. But not just yet," Treville says, and *drags* his calluses over that hole — 

"*Fuck*, sir —" 

"That's right, son. We both know you love this..." 

"Yes, sir — yes —" 

"And we both know you have something to tell me." 

A *dark* flush — but Porthos doesn't hesitate before saying: "I think about *you* owning me, sir! I think about you just — putting me in my *place* —" 

"On your knees?" 

"On the *ground*. On — on — *please* —" 

"Shh, keep going. You're making me... starved." 

"Oh *fuck* —" 

"Keep *going*." 

"I think about you — talking about it, you know, telling me — telling me who I. Belong to —" 

Treville growls and steps *back* — 

"*Please*, sir —" 

"On the bed, at the center, near the head, on your knees, hands braced above the headboard." 

Porthos inhales sharply — "Yes, sir," he says, and obeys. 

Treville has to watch him doing it. Has to *see* him doing it — "Good boy..." 

"Thank you, sir," Porthos says, and he's already panting. 

Treville takes the oil out of the bedside table and crawls onto the bed behind — behind his boy. Because that's exactly who Porthos is going to be when he's done with him. That's — 

It's past time to admit that that's what he *wants*. 

"I'm not fucking you right away, son." 

"Nuh. No, sir?" 

"No, son. I'm going to *own* you." 

"Oh. Fuck. Um. How — how are you —" 

"You'll see," Treville says, slicking his fingers and warming the oil.


	3. Anything for you.

Porthos shivers and just — "Fuck. That sound..." 

"Do you like it, son...?" 

"Yeah. Yes, sir. I love it when you're —" 

"Just when *I'm* doing it, son?" 

Porthos sucks in a sharp breath — and laughs painfully. "It hasn't always meant *good* things, sir." 

Treville growls. "You came up hard." 

"Yes, sir. I don't — I don't —" 

"We don't have to talk about it," Treville says, and licks Porthos's temple. 

Shit — "I — I want to talk to you —" 

"Did you think I'd fall out of this mood, son?" 

"Uh..." 

Treville laughs and spreads Porthos's arse with his dry hand — 

Porthos gasps — 

"I don't shut up once you start me talking, son. I can be... gregarious," he says, and rubs that hole with his *slick* fingers — 

"Shit — fuck — unh — please — please don't stop talking to me!" 

"You've wanted more of me," Treville says, and he sounds so *hungry* — 

So — 

Starved *is* the best word for it, the hottest word for it, the — 

And Porthos has to answer. "So *much*. Fuck, you're such a hard man, sir, you're so — you're so *big*." 

Treville barks a laugh. "Son." 

"You *are*. You're — you're bigger than anything," Porthos says, and his own voice is... maybe a little small. 

Treville growls and rubs his hole *faster* — 

"Unh —" 

*Breathes* on his damp ear — 

"Fuck — oh, fuck, sir —" 

"Before you looked at me *that* way, son, I felt broken-down. Old. Small." 

"No —" 

"I felt *beaten*. By the world, my job, my life without my brothers in it..." 

"Sir —" 

"But then there was you," Treville says, and pushes *deep* with two fingers —

"Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck, yes!" 

"You like that, son?" 

"Yes, sir, *yes*, sir — you're not *old* —" 

"Not with you. Not with you to *make* me young again," Treville says, smiling against Porthos's ear — 

"I —" 

*Twisting* his fingers — 

"*Shit* —" 

"Shh..." 

"Yes — yes, sir —" And Porthos shuts his mouth up tight and just feels, just feels Treville opening him *up* — 

"Good boy," Treville says, and *kisses* his ear — 

Porthos *pants* — 

Shuts his mouth again — 

Treville *crooks* his fingers — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

"Is that so, son...?" 

"I — I — I'll be quiet —" 

"No, you *won't*," Treville says, and crooks *again* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Do I ever take your words, son?" And Treville starts *fucking* Porthos with his fingers. "Do I ever let you make *noise* and nothing else?" 

Porthos *groans* — 

Imagines it *helplessly* — 

His cock is jerking and leaking all over the *pillows* — 

"Answer, son." 

"Sir — I —" 

"*Answer*." 

"I never fantasized it!" 

"Do you *want* it." 

Porthos whimpers and — he can't stop himself from riding those fingers, from *taking* them — 

He can't stop himself from *giving* himself to Treville — 

He's groaning like an *animal* — 

"Should I take that as a yes...?" 

Shit — but. "Sir... sir, I want — please let me — let me *talk* to you —" 

Treville growls and *bites* the back of Porthos's neck — 

Porthos *shouts*, cock jerking helplessly — "Sir — *sir* —" 

And Treville pulls back and growls more. "You're absolutely right, son. I have to *know* you to own you properly —" 

"Oh, *shit* — *ahn* —" 

And Treville licks a long stripe up Porthos's upper back and into his hair — 

Again — 

*Again* — 

"*Please*!" 

"You'll have to forgive me, son. You're just too delicious. Too *hot* inside. Too sleek with sweat and *perfect*. I get distracted by everything I *want* with you..." 

Porthos pants and feels himself — drop.

Feels himself just — just drop right down and — 

It's warm. "Sir..." 

"Don't think I didn't want this before, son," Treville says, pressing close and rumbling in Porthos's ear. "Don't think I didn't stand on that catwalk watching you swagger through the other men and *dream* of putting you on. Your. *Knees*." 

Porthos's cock *spasms* — "Sir — you — you'll make me *spend* —" 

"Just like this...?" 

"Yeah, sir, I — it's a fantasy —" 

"Me telling you what I want while I open you up for me?" 

"For. For..." 

"For me, son. Say it." 

Porthos moans and flushes — "For you. For you, sir —" 

"That's just right. That's exactly right. Now answer." 

"I've — I've dreamed of you... dreaming of me, sir. I've dreamed of you... telling me all *about* it." 

Treville rumbles more and *crooks* again — 

"*Fuck* —" 

And then he *works* Porthos's pleasure-button — 

"Sir —" 

Over and over *again* — 

"Oh, *sir*, I'm — I'm sweating so *much* —" 

"It just makes you more delicious, son," Treville says, and licks Porthos's *throat* — 

"*Unh* —" 

"It makes your scents so —" Treville growls. "You make me want to *hire* a poet and put a pistol to his head until he damned well makes *up* decent words for this." 

Porthos coughs a laugh — "I don't know if that's how poetry *works*, sir!" 

"Maybe we should find out, mm? You and Athos have a gift for interrogations. My brothers never let *me* at the prisoners," Treville says, and starts *fucking* Porthos again — 

"Nnh — unh — nuh — no?" 

"No, son. I always made too much of a mess. But I'd let you hold me back. I'd let you be my... hmm. Conscience?" 

Porthos laughs more — "I'd rather be your *toy*, sir —" 

"Would you, now..." 

"Uhh..." 

"Or would you rather be my *boy*." 

Porthos clenches hard and winces with *lust*, but — "Anything, sir, anything you *want* —" 

"You want me to *own* you..." 

"Yeah — *yeah* —" 

"You want me to put you right down on the *ground*." 

"Oh, God, *please*, sir —" 

"I want to *start*... by making you my beautiful little boy..." And Treville crooks his fingers *hard* — 

"*Yes*!" 

"A man can do anything with his boy, son. Can't he." 

"Yes — *yes*. Please!" 

"Are you ready for another finger?" 

"Anything!" 

"Shh. Are you *ready*." And Treville stops thrusting and puts his dry hand on Porthos's shoulder — 

Squeezes *firmly* — 

*Grounds* him — 

Porthos pants and pants and — 

Licks the sweat and salt from his lips — 

*Thinks* — tries to think. Treville *wants* him to think — 

Wants him to do more than just fall *into* this — which. 

"Sir...?"

"What is it, son?" 

"*Why* do you want me to think now?" 

Treville licks Porthos's shoulders — 

His throat — 

His ears — 

"Sir —" 

"I'm about to take you down, son." 

Porthos's belly drops — 

He *grunts* — 

He clenches and winces with *need* — 

"Mm. You know precisely what I mean." 

"Sir..." 

"I'm not going to let you up again, son." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I'm not —" Treville growls and *nips* Porthos's right ear. "Not unless you *need* to come up. Not unless you *need* to be off your knees." 

Porthos's heart pounds — 

He doesn't want — but he has to say it. 

"I. Sir... I don't want you to — to let me up..." 

Treville nips him again. "Only if you need it, son. I won't force it on you... and I *will* put you right back down when it's time for it." 

Porthos's cock jerks and jerks — 

He pants — 

"Thank you, sir —" 

"Now. Are you *ready*." 

Porthos moans and drops his head — 

Clutches at the headboard — 

"Please own me, sir. Please — please just make me all yours —" 

Treville growls low and squeezes Porthos's shoulder *hard* — 

Almost *painfully* — 

But then he licks Porthos's cheek once and starts stroking down over Porthos's chest and belly... 

Feeling him and petting him and *measuring* him — 

Measuring his *cock* — 

"Oh, sir..." 

"My boy..." 

Porthos clenches and moans — 

*Shakes* —

"I — sir —" 

"You need a little more, first. That's all right," Treville says, and *squeezes* Porthos's cock — 

"*Unh* —" 

"Always tell me. Always tell me exactly what you need." 

"You, sir! I need you!" 

"Do you know how you need me, son?" And Treville sounds curious, interested, *starved* —

"Please fuck me again! Please open me!" 

Treville rumbles and starts to *rock* his two fingers — 

"Unh — *unh* —" 

"What positions are you in when I have you, son. What positions do I *fuck* you in." 

"Every position! I'll do anything —" 

"Shh. What makes you... wild." And Treville crooks his fingers — 

Porthos *coughs* a cry — 

"Oh, good boy... do that again," Treville says, and *works* his pleasure-button — 

Porthos cries out again and again — 

He's *shaking* — 

Sweating and — and his cock is *dripping* — 

Treville is *stroking* his cock —

So rough, so sweet, so *hot* — 

"You've a question to answer, son..." 

"*Unh* —" 

And Treville laughs softly and *massages* Porthos's cock — 

It feels so *good* — 

So — but he has to *answer*. He has to *talk*. 

"You — sir, you're *over* me!" 

"Looming over you, son?" And Treville starts fucking Porthos again — 

Starts fucking Porthos *hard* — 

So bloody *hard* — 

Porthos drops his head and pants for it, groans for it, tries to spread his knees — 

"Stay still, son." 

"Yes, sir, sorry — sorry, sir!" 

"Shh, it's all right. Just answer. Am I looming over you?" And Treville is fucking him so — 

So *good* — 

Porthos feels himself flex *open* — 

"Oh, son... I'm going to give you another finger just as soon as you answer me properly." 

"Yes, sir — *yes*, sir," Porthos says, and tries to think around his jerking cock, his *aching* cock — 

He *needs* — 

"I need you, sir..." 

Treville rumbles more. "You don't know how much I need you, son. You don't know how perfect you feel to me. How much you —" Treville growls. "Answer me." 

"I dream of you... holding me down, sir," Porthos says, blushing and swallowing back spit. "I dream of you pushing my leg back — or both legs —" 

Treville growls and *bites* him — 

Bites his throat *hard* — 

Again and *again* — 

"*Ungh* — but you don't have to —" 

Treville growls into his *skin* — and pulls back slowly. "I want it, son. I want you just that way. It's one of *many* things I dreamed when I started dreaming of bringing you home." 

"Oh — fuck..." 

"Which I started doing... immediately," Treville says, and growls. "I'm going to take my hand off your cock, son." 

"Yes — yes, sir —" 

"Just to spread you wide for me. Just to... oh, look at you..." 

Porthos pants — 

Blushes more — 

"Sir... do you like..." 

"Do I like seeing your hole get just a little puffy for me? Just a little... pink?" And Treville *pushes* against Porthos's hole with the tip of the third finger. 

Porthos *moans*. "Please — *please* —" 

"The answer is yes, son. The answer is *always* yes for you. Now take this," he says, and pushes — 

And pushes — 

And Porthos feels himself sweating more, *dropping* more — 

He can't *focus* — 

He can't *think* — 

"Oh, son... oh, *son*, the sounds you make for me..." 

He's making noise? He wants — he wants to tell Treville to keep going, to fuck him, to *have* him — 

And then Treville crooks all three fingers — 

Porthos chokes on a gasp — 

Gasps again — 

Treville *bites* him again — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

And Treville's cock spatters him with slick. It — 

So hot — 

So *hot* — 

"Sir — *sir* —" 

Treville pulls back and starts to *fuck* him with those fingers — 

"Unh — *unh* — *please* —" 

"Please what, hm? What do you need?" 

Porthos laughs breathlessly — "*Everything*, everything from you, sir —" 

"Mm. Is that so..." And Treville *twists* his fingers — 

"*Fuck* —" And Porthos lowers his head more, tries to — to get *down* — 

"You're up too far. Aren't you." 

Porthos grunts — 

Blushes *violently* — but. 

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I am —" 

"You need to be... low." 

"Fuck — please, sir —" 

"Yes or no." 

"Yes, sir!" 

"Then let's do just that," Treville says, and grips Porthos's hip with his free hand — 

*Stops* fucking him — 

Stops — 

"Please, sir!" 

"Shh. Breathe for me. Slow as you can." 

Porthos *groans* — but does it. He'll do anything for — for Treville. Anything at all. 

There's nothing — 

There's *nothing* — 

"That's right, son. That's just right. A little slower." 

Porthos nods and obeys, ignoring the way he's shaking, ignoring the way he just needs — 

Everything — 

So much of *everything* — 

"Good boy. Good, good boy..." 

Porthos blushes again, breath hitching — 

"Slow and even, now." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"Shh, you don't have to speak. You don't have to do anything but breathe right now, son." 

He breathes — 

He breathes slower — 

He feels himself flex *open* — 

"There you are, son. My good boy. My perfect boy," Treville says, and holds the back of Porthos's neck in his *teeth* as he pulls out — 

All the way *out* — 

Porthos can't help but stay loose and *breathe* — 

He's covered in *gooseflesh* — 

Treville *has* him — and he's *rubbing* Porthos's sensitized hole again. 

Porthos moans and moans and pushes back into the touch — 

And Treville breaks the bite and pulls back, moving to the side. 

"Sir?" 

"Lie down on your back, son. Knees up, feet planted — for now." 

Porthos shudders as his cock *spasms* — and he obeys. 

Just — he has to. 

He *has* to. 

This is a *dream*, a fantasy, a — 

And Treville is so *hard*. 

His furry sheath is pulled all the way back and his furry *bollocks* are drawn up just a little. 

The fur on his *belly* is encroaching a little farther up his chest than it usually does, which means that his dog is close, and he's — 

Hard. 

*Hard*. Thick and red and *dripping* all over the duvet, and Porthos wants — everything — 

"What do you want in *particular*, son," Treville says, and kneels between Porthos's spread thighs. 

Porthos blinks — "Did I — that was out loud?" 

"You're a little dazed. A little..." Treville growls. "Don't hesitate. Just answer." 

"*Yes*, sir. I want you to fuck me, but I also want to suck you —" 

"We haven't been giving you much opportunity for that..." And Treville is smiling and spreading Porthos's *arse*. 

"Please, sir — I mean — no, sir —" 

"Should we — no. You already told me that dreaming about me fucking your mouth made you wild. You're a good boy." 

Porthos blushes again, belly clenching — 

And then Treville pushes back in with all three fingers — 

Slow and steady and *hard* — 

So *hard* — 

Porthos groans and spreads his legs *wider* — 

It feels like Treville is *stuffing* him from this angle — 

He feels so stretched-*open* —

Porthos *grips* at the sheets — 

Arches — 

"Good boy... there's my — mm. Mm. You're perfect." 

"Sir — sir, I *want* to be perfect for you —" 

"You are. You *are*," Treville says, and his voice is a low, hungry growl. "You shouldn't think I don't want you to suck me, son." And his eyes gleam *hot*. "You shouldn't think I don't want to climb right up your big, beautiful body and *feed* you my cock —

"Oh, *fuck* —" 

"Would you like that, son?" 

"Please, yes!" 

"Would you like me to ride your perfect *face*?" 

Porthos *bucks* — 

Gasps at the feel of those fingers reaching *deeper* inside him — 

Clenches and gasps again — 

"You're absolutely right, son. You need more of this," Treville says, spreading his fingers for a moment — 

Porthos *whines* — 

"Oh, son... if you do that with any *great* degree of frequency, you're going to be bow-legged for the rest of your life." 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Tries to focus — 

Tries to *think* — 

"No. Don't take yourself away from this," Treville says — 

"I —" 

"Shh, just take me," Treville says, and *thrusts* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

And *thrusts* — 

"Oh — oh, *God* —" 

"I'm going to open you wide today, son..." 

"Please!" 

"I'm going to work you open so far..." Treville growls. "Have you dreamed that?" And he licks his lips — 

And pants — 

His tongue is *peeking* — 

"Yes, sir! *Yes*!" 

Treville rumbles and rumbles and *crooks* — 

"*Sir*!" 

"Good boy. Perfect boy..." 

"Fuck fuck —" 

"You *are* my boy, you know..." 

"I — please, *yes* —" 

"You want it." 

"I want everything from you!" 

Treville growls and squeezes Porthos's *bollocks* — 

Porthos clenches and *howls* — 

"Oh, son..." And Treville squeezes *harder* — 

Porthos chokes and *whines* again — 

Treville's cock spatters them *both* — 

And Porthos can't stop himself from swiping up the slick, from sucking and licking his fingers, from trying to taste his — 

His —

"My boy..." 

"Sir —" 

"You don't know how much I dream about you, son..." And Treville slowly eases his *grip* on Porthos's bollocks — 

And starts fucking him *hard* — 

So — 

"Unh — *UNGH* — *please*!" 

"You don't know how much I *crave* you when I'm lying in my bed alone —" Treville shows his teeth. "A boy shouldn't leave the man he belongs to alone, son." 

Porthos's cock spasms *hard* — 

His *eyes* try to roll back — 

He wants — 

He wants *everything* — 

"Please don't stop!" 

"I *won't*," Treville says and strokes Porthos's cock — 

Strokes it so — 

One *long* stroke, *hard*, gathering all the slick and pulling Porthos's foreskin out straight and making Porthos shout — 

Making Porthos *writhe* between Treville's perfect *hands* — 

And then that hand is off his cock and Treville is sniffing it, growling, *biting* — 

Sucking and *slurping* up Porthos's slick — 

"Delicious *boy*..." 

"Fuck, sir —" 

"Are you mine...?" 

Porthos doesn't *recognize* the noise he makes — 

Treville is gleaming at him so —

Treville is *burning* at him, and Porthos just wants to lie here and take it, take him, do everything and anything he *wants* — 

"Son..." 

"I'm *yours*!" 

Treville pants — 

Winces —

"Fuck, son, you're driving me..." He growls and rolls his head on his neck — 

Porthos spreads *wider* — 

"That's — that's just right, son, that. Here," Treville says, and starts *screwing* his fingers in — 

In — 

*In* — 

Porthos groans helplessly and sweats, *aches* — 

He's clawing at the duvet and riding Treville's *hand* again — 

"You don't know how much I want — no." 

"Sir — sir, please —"

And Treville gives him another *gleaming* look — 

It just makes him look more *starved* — 

"Son... I'll make you mine." 

"I *am* yours!" 

"I'll make you — I'll take you away from *everything*," Treville says, baring his teeth and fucking him hard with his fingers, so *hard* — 

Porthos *sobs* — 

Treville growls — "Tell me you *want* it." 

"I want it!" 

"Tell me — tell me you want to be my —" And this time it's a snarl, desperate and *wild* — 

"Sir —" 

"I — I need control —" 

"You *don't* —" 

"*Quiet*," Treville says, and his teeth are longer, he's snarling *more* — 

And Porthos is clenching and *groaning* even as Treville fucks him *viciously*. It's so good, it's so perfect, it's so — 

He wants to *tell* Treville that, he wants to *show* him, give him everything, everything he needs, everything he *wants* — 

He knows he's begging with his *eyes* — 

Treville turns *away* — 

"*Please*, sir —" 

"Don't —" And this growl is purely animal, so hungry, so *hungry* — 

Treville is *shaking* — until he stops. 

Until he pants. "But I have to be honest with my boy..." 

"Yes, sir, please, sir, please — please let me *see* you* —" 

Treville turns back and gives himself a shake — his teeth shrink. Most of the way. 

His eyes don't stop gleaming. 

"I want you, son. I want you in *every way I can possibly have you* —" 

"You can — we *can* —" 

"Shh. Wait," Treville says, and slows his thrusts. 

Porthos groans. "*Please*!" 

Treville licks his lips and rests his free hand on Porthos's belly. "Son... I. I don't call you that for no *reason*." 

"Sir? What..." 

"This isn't... you don't have to take it from me. It doesn't have to be *part* of this. But. It's yours." 

Porthos feels himself *flush* — 

Feels himself just — *aware* of Treville's fingers in his arse and Treville's hand on his belly and Treville's bed under him and — 

He's hot all *over* —

Treville is *wincing* — 

And this.

This is something — 

"Sir..." 

"Son, I'm —" 

"Don't — don't apologize." 

"*Son*." 

"I want it." 

Treville grunts — and growls, searching him, sniffing him — he whuffs out a breath. "Son..."

Porthos licks his lips. "I'm yours, sir," he says, and arches up. 

"Have you. Have you *dreamed*." 

"Just — just once. Not really uh... extensively." 

"Tell me," Treville says, and starts to fuck him again, slow and *hard* — 

Porthos flushes even *hotter*. "You — you were fucking me —" 

"How." 

"Hard, sir. *Fast*. You had me bent over your desk and you'd knotted me, and — oh, fuck — please —" 

"More. *More*." 

"Yes, sir — yes — I called you sir. You bit me hard and told me to. To use the right *name*." 

Treville *flushes* — 

Porthos looks him in the eye. "I called you 'Daddy' and you. You fucked me even harder. I spent myself blind —" 

Treville growls and crooks — 

"Please, sir!" 

"Use. The right. Name." 

Porthos's cock jerks so hard it spatters both of them *and* the bed — 

"*Do* it." 

Porthos whines again — 

Treville's *tongue* is peeking again — 

"Please, Daddy, please fuck me, please open me, please *own* me —"

Treville *shoves* in — 

Porthos *screams* — 

"Every last one of your fantasies about me is going to come true, son." 

"Oh, fuck —" 

"Best be prepared," Treville says, gripping Porthos's cock in his free hand and starting to toss him *off* — 

"*Daddy* —" 

"No?" 

"Yes! Please!" 

"You want to spend for your Daddy?" 

"Yes — fuck — unless you don't want —" 

"I want your spend all over me, son," Treville says, and fucks him harder, *harder* — "I want your spend all over this *room*." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Of course, that wouldn't be courteous to the staff, so we'll just have to clean our *messes*. Now won't we." 

"Yes, Daddy, please, Daddy —" 

"Reach down and show me how you play with your bollocks when you're dreaming of me, son..." 

"UNH —" Porthos scrambles to obey, rolling his bollocks in his palm and squeezing them *hard* — 

"That rough, son?" 

"Yeah — please —" 

"Is that how you want your Daddy to touch you...?" 

Porthos groans and squeezes himself *harder* —

Treville rumbles. "My boy needs to hurt..." 

"Yes, Daddy — please —" 

"Here," he says, crooking his fingers and fucking him *that* way — 

"Oh fuck — oh *fuck* —" 

— and stroking him fast and hard, fast and rough, fast and *dirty* — 

"*Daddy* —" 

"*Don't* stop torturing those big, heavy bollocks of yours, son —" 

"Nuh — no — I won't!" 

"Don't stop *talking* to me —"

"I *won't* —" 

"I *need* you!" 

Porthos bucks and shouts — 

"*Down*." 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" And Porthos drops — 

Treville *screws* his fingers in — 

Porthos *howls* — 

And Treville starts fucking him again, fucking him so — 

Tossing him off so — 

Porthos can't bloody *see* — 

He can't — 

He's *pumping* his bollocks — 

"Oh, son..." And Treville growls low and starts pushing in with a fourth finger. 

He. 

"You're going to take it." 

"Daddy —" 

"You're going to take it for *me*." 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Hnh — oh, fuck, son, I'm so hard for you, so hot, so *needy*," Treville says and pushes — 

And *pushes* — 

Porthos squeezes his eyes shut — 

Pants — 

"Son. *Open*." 

Porthos's eyes fly open and he gasps and flexes open and — 

"Perfect," Treville says, and *shoves* — 

"*Daddy*!" 

"Do you feel me, son? Do you feel my fingers making you nice and full for me?" 

Porthos groans and *trembles* — 

*Aches* — 

His hand is *shaking* on his bollocks — 

"Answer me, son..." 

"I feel — I feel you, Daddy!" 

"You can't focus all that well anymore, though..." 

"No — nuh. I'm sorry —" 

"Shh. It's all right. You just need to spend for me now..." 

"I — I —" 

Treville crooks *all* of his fingers — 

Porthos *screams* — 

Treville is saying — *Daddy* is saying something, but Porthos can't hear, can't focus, can't think, can't do anything but feel Daddy's perfect hands on him and in him, feel Daddy's perfect hands making him so — 

So *hot* — 

"— need this, don't you, son..." 

"Daddy!" 

"You need to just... give yourself over *completely*..." And Daddy is working him slow and hard with *both* hands — 

Working him so *relentlessly*, so — 

So *ruthlessly* — 

"Daddy — Daddy, I *need* —" 

"You need me. Don't you." 

"Yes, Daddy, please —" 

"Say it." 

"I need you! I *need* you!" 

Daddy growls. "Daddies always give their boys exactly what they need. Daddies... ah, fuck —" 

And Daddy *stops* stroking him, moves his hand, and *immediately* swallows Porthos, takes him all the way *in* — 

Fucks him and sucks him, slurps and groans in his chest like Porthos is the best he's ever had, like it's everything he *wants*, and Porthos is shaking, *shaking* — 

He can't — 

He's gasping and fucking up into Daddy's throat, down onto his fingers, he can't stop, he can't stop — 

Daddy is gripping him by the hip — 

Daddy is working him so *perfectly* — 

He crooks his *fingers* — 

Porthos *howls* — 

Daddy swallows and swallows around him — and looks at him.

And *orders* him with his *eyes* — 

Porthos clenches and sobs and *spurts* — 

Daddy's eyes go hazy *immediately* — 

He pulls back — 

He slurps and laps — 

Porthos spurts *more* — 

Sobs again and spurts *more* — 

He can't — 

He can't keep his *eyes* on Daddy, and he wants to, he *needs* to —

He needs his *Daddy* — 

"I'm — mm. I'm right here, son. I won't leave you..." 

Porthos *bucks* again — 

"Oh, son. Oh, *son*..." And Daddy licks his cock again — 

Again — 

Porthos whimpers and tries to focus — 

Tries to *see* — 

Daddy is pulling *out* — 

"No, wait!" 

"Mm? You need me to keep my fingers where they are?" 

"Please! Please keep me —" 

"Nice and full...?" 

Porthos groans and shivers — 

And the first thing he can *really* focus on again is Daddy's *hot* smile, sharp and wild and just — 

Porthos *clenches* — 

Cries *out* — 

"*Don't* close your eyes, son." 

Porthos *focuses* — 

"Good boy. Good son. Tell me you want me to keep you... full." 

"*Fuck* — yes, Daddy, please — I — it's so *good* when you knot me!" 

Daddy rumbles. "I agree wholeheartedly. Though the fact that you've convinced me to do it twice in my *office* is —" 

"Great?" 

"Son." 

"*Bloody* great?" 

"Son, I —" And Daddy whuffs a laugh. 

Porthos *looks* at him. 

Daddy hums. "We're going to have to behave a *little* better, son —" 

"Oi — *UNH* —" 

And Daddy twists his fingers *again* — 

"Oh, *yeah* —" 

*Again* — 

"Fuck — Daddy, *fuck* —" 

And *then* he stills his fingers and just — keeps Porthos wide open. 

*Wide* open. 

Porthos moans and rolls his head on the pillow and laughs. "I'll behave, Daddy. I'll definitely — wait, no —" 

"Son." 

"Daddy, I *need* your knot," Porthos says, and sits up on his elbows. Licks his lips. "I go a little spare when you make me wait for it longer than it takes for me to *heal*. I go a little spare *healing*." 

Daddy — pants. "I... would never, ever deny you my knot." 

"I — oh. No?" 

"No, son. I can't. I *can't*. If you even *tried* to walk out of this bedroom today before I had the chance to tie you... well, let's not discuss that." 

"Right, no, definitely, but —" 

"You're going to come home with me more often, son," Daddy says, and — looks Porthos right in the eye. 

*Holds* Porthos's *gaze*. It's — "Daddy..." 

"Don't say no." 

"I *won't*. *I* can't. But —" 

"No." 

"Daddy, is that *safe*?" 

Daddy growls — stops. "It's safer than all but *one* alternative, son." 

Porthos winces. "I can't — I can't give you up, Daddy —" 

"Shh, don't. That's not —" Daddy licks his lips and strokes Porthos's belly. "I need you, son. And you need me. I'm not in the habit of letting need go unanswered." 

"No, but —" 

"Shh. We have. We have another option." 

Porthos blinks. "We... do?" 

And Daddy is — blushing. Actually *blushing*. 

But his eyes don't get any less steely. 

"We do, son. We... you can let me adopt you." 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"We can say you're thinking about it. That *we're* thinking about it. That that's why you're spending so much time —"

"Daddy..." 

Daddy — pants. And stops. "Ask." 

"I —" 

"No, you don't actually have to. I know this is — too much. I know I'm *asking* too much —" Daddy growls. "I want all of you. I won't try to pretend I don't. But I also won't try to force anything on you." 

"You'll... hold yourself back?" 

Daddy nods. 

Porthos frowns. "Don't. Please —" 

"Son —" 

"*Please* don't hold back —" 

"*Son* —" 

"Daddy, I — fuck, I'm a little — I don't know what to *do* with the fact that you want to adopt me —" 

"That's *right* —" 

"But that doesn't mean that I want you to *hide* from me. All right? I want more. I want — I want all of you." 

Daddy opens his mouth — closes it. "Say that again." 

Porthos shivers. "I want all of you, Daddy." 

Daddy exhales, slow and hot — 

His eyes are *gleaming* again — 

"I waited, son." 

"You — what? Waited for what?" 

"As soon as I *smelled* you I *wanted* you." 

"Oh — *shit*. *Really*? Does that — is that how it *works* for you?" 

"No," Treville says, and laughs. "So you can understand my *confusion*." He strokes Porthos's sticky belly — 

Sucks his fingers — 

"Mm. I waited. I waited to see if my *mind* would agree with my *nose*. I waited to see if you were *truly* as promising a soldier as you seemed to be in that initial interview. I waited to see if I could, after all this time, trust my *instincts*." 

"Oh... sir..." 

Treville licks his own *face*. "Of course I could. Of course — you excelled at everything. Every test. Every measure of a man that's ever *mattered* to me." 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"And I hungered for you, son..." 

Porthos *clenches* — 

Gasps for Treville's thick *fingers* — 

Shudders and tries to be still, to just be *still* — 

Treville rubs his belly. "It's all right, son. You can take it..." 

"Yeah — oh, yeah —" 

"You can take *me*." 

Porthos groans and pants — "Daddy —" 

"I hungered for you, son. I knew Athos was training himself to exhaustion that day — he's my godson; I've known *precisely* how he works since he was in swaddling." 

"I — *fuck*. You — you *intended* to seduce me?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "I *intended*... to be alone with you. To *give* myself that. And see what happened if I let myself... be honest. I knew you were a *remarkably* open-minded young man." 

Porthos's cock *jerks* — 

Does its best to plaster itself to his belly again — 

"Daddy — fuck, Daddy, it was so good with you, it's *always* good with you. And — just *talking* —" 

"You want more of that." 

"*Please*." 

Daddy licks his face again. "You're going to have to get knotted first, son." 

"I'm all right with that!" And they laugh together, like a couple of *arseholes*, breathless and hungry and — 

And Daddy leans in and licks *Porthos's* face — 

Licks Porthos's mouth and beard and throat — 

Pushes his hand into Porthos's hair and *shoves* Porthos's head down to the pillows — 

"Fuck —" 

And the kiss is deep, hard, *slow*. 

*Conscious*. 

*Focused*. 

Daddy's not one for kisses, usually, but when he *is*...

Porthos moans and takes it, just takes it, opens up and gives himself *over* for it — 

And Daddy starts fucking his mouth slowly, *deliberately*, relentlessly — 

Porthos's cock jerks and he clenches — 

Whimpers into Daddy's *mouth* — 

The kiss *pauses* —

Porthos *sucks* Daddy's tongue — 

But Daddy pulls back and rolls his head on his neck. "My apologies, son. I've waited just a little too long for that." 

That — "Are you close to losing control, Daddy?" 

Daddy grins. "Why, son. You sound *eager*." 

"Well. There's a reason for that," Porthos says, and they're laughing together again — 

Daddy lolls his tongue — 

"Oh fuck —" 

"Mm. You should be clenching like that on my cock, son. And you will be... imminently." 

"Fuck fuck —" Porthos *yanks* the ridiculously fancy linen off the bedside table and hands it to Daddy — 

"Thank you *very* much, son," Daddy says, and pulls out slowly, easily, *gently* — 

"*Please*, Daddy —" 

"Shh. You're about to get fucked through the *mattress*, son." 

"*Shit* —" 

"Feathers everywhere, splintered wood —" 

Porthos splutters and clenches and *squawks* — 

Daddy laughs like an *arsehole* — and then he's all the way out. 

Porthos pants. "Fuck — I feel like — Daddy, I'm so *empty* —" 

"Shh, son. I'm going to do something about that — very soon. *Very* soon," Daddy says, wiping his hand and then oiling his already-*dripping* cock. 

Porthos hasn't gotten to *see* him doing it before. 

He hasn't — 

He's so *brutal* with himself, so fast, so — Porthos looks up — 

And Daddy is staring into his eyes, panting and tossing himself *off* — 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Every time I caught your *scents*, I've wanted to taste you. To *bite* you. To *fuck* you. To *ride* you —" Daddy growls and cocks his head to the side. "Will you let me bite you today, son?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"No, son," Daddy says *quietly*, and his teeth are longer. *Sharper*. "Will you let me *bite* you." 

"Oh — shit — *please*!" 

"Do you *want* it." 

"I want everything from you!" 

"Knees *up*." 

Porthos *obeys*, bending his knees back to his chest — 

And Daddy growls — 

Pants — 

Stares at him with his lips parted and his eyes *hot* — 

"Daddy, *please* —" 

Daddy growls again, and shakes himself. "You're right. No waiting," he says, and replaces the hand Porthos has on his right knee with his own. "My strong, beautiful son... you wanted me *over* you." 

"Yeah — fuck — *yeah* —" 

Daddy grins and starts to push right in — 

So — 

So slow and steady and hot and *hard* — 

Porthos pants and pants and tries not to clench — 

Daddy never wants him to clench up right away — 

"Good boy... there's my good boy..." 

"Daddy — please, *Daddy* —" 

"You feel how hot I am for you, son?" 

"Yeah —" 

"You feel how much my cock is *already* spasming?" 

"Oh, fuck, Daddy —" 

"But you wanted me... over you," Daddy says, and *shoves* in — 

"UNGH —" 

Daddy growls and growls and knocks Porthos's other hand aside — 

*Grips* both of Porthos's legs and strokes, massages — 

"Porthos..." 

"Daddy — *Daddy*, please fuck me, please —" 

"Legs. Around my waist." 

"*Fuck* —" Porthos *obeys* — 

And Daddy croons and rolls his head on his neck *twice* — 

*Shakes* — 

"Daddy —" 

And then those rough, powerful hands are on Porthos's shoulders, holding him *down* — 

"Fuck, Daddy, *yes* —" 

"*Stay*." 

"Anything you —" But the rest of that is a *groan*, because Daddy is grinding in, in, *in* — 

Staying deep and just — 

Making room — 

Opening Porthos up *with* his cock, and fuck, his knot's right there — 

He doesn't *do* this — 

He doesn't — 

"Daddy — I — I —" 

"Do you *like* this." 

"Yeah! Please!" 

"I can't — I can't give you — the long strokes. Not today." 

"It's all right!" 

Daddy croons again — 

Growls and swivels his *hips* — 

"UNH — Daddy, I'm — please more!"

"Oh, son — son, you drive me so *wild*," Daddy says, and swivels his hips again —

"*Fuck* —" 

Again and *again* — 

"Hnh — Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

"My boy. My *boy*," Daddy says, and starts to thrust, starts to — 

One short *shove* after another, and Porthos can't keep himself from *clutching* Daddy with his thighs — 

Daddy *snarls* and shoves *hard* — 

The frontal curve of his knot slips *in* — 

Porthos *howls* — 

"*Son* — *fuck* —" 

"More! *More*! Ple—nngk —" 

And Daddy has one hand on Porthos's shoulder and the other around his throat — 

Daddy is *snarling* and fucking his way *in* — 

One shove after *another* — 

Daddy is *slick* with sweat, shining with it and — looming over him. 

Shadowing him. 

Taking the whole bloody *world* and filling it up — 

Filling *him* up, and Porthos can only drop, only — 

His belly is clenching and his mind is going and Daddy wants him to stay right here, Daddy needs him to stay right *here* — 

He will — 

He'll never go *anywhere* — 

"Your — your *eyes*," Daddy says, and he sounds mad with it, *starved* again, *desperate* as he shoves his knot deeper and deeper — 

Opens Porthos so *wide* — 

He always opens Porthos so — 

Porthos can't *breathe* with Daddy's hand locked around his throat, with Daddy's knot working him open so *perfectly*, with Daddy taking every bit of light in the *room* — 

He doesn't want to. 

He doesn't bloody — 

He smiles at his Daddy, loose and happy —

And Daddy grunts and *snarls*, fucking in faster, *faster*, and Porthos is grunting in his chest, helpless to it, so — 

Daddy's so big — 

Daddy's so *big* — 

And Porthos knew it would be harder in this position — that's one of the reasons why he'd *wanted* it — but this feels like the first time, like he's brand new for Daddy, like Daddy is showing him *how* — 

And his cock is *drooling* slick all over his belly — 

And he's sweating *desperately* — 

And Daddy looks so wild, so hungry, so — "*Now*," he says, and *slams* in, releasing Porthos's throat — 

Porthos gasps and chokes and gasps and *howls* — 

And Daddy is already rutting into him, already *fucking* him, already *having* him, just having him, just — 

Just using him so *perfectly* — 

Using his *boy* — 

Porthos stomach drops for that and he whines — 

And Daddy *slams* in again, again, *again*, snarling and dripping saliva, and —

He'd said Porthos would be bow-legged if he kept that up. 

Daddy always keeps his *promises* — 

And Porthos's cock is jerking and spasming constantly — 

Porthos's eyes are rolling back in his *head* — 

"*No*," Daddy says, and pinches Porthos's nipples *hard* — 

Porthos bucks and gasps and *focuses* — 

"Don't *leave* me," Daddy says, and buries one hand in Porthos's hair again — 

*Yanks* Porthos's hair again — 

He's still shoving Porthos down to the bed by the shoulder with the other hand — 

It's so good — 

It's so *good* — 

Porthos *squeezes* Daddy with his thighs — 

Daddy barks and slams in *again* — 

"*Daddy* —" 

"I can't stop, I can't —" 

"Don't stop! Please don't —" 

"I *love* you!" 

Porthos bucks again, *again* — 

And Daddy crushes him to the bed with his body, licks his face, his ear, his mouth — 

Nips him *everywhere* he can reach with those — 

Those sharp *teeth* — 

"Please bite! Please — *FUCK* —" 

And it's nothing like any of Daddy's other bites, it's — 

This is serious, vicious, bloody — 

He's *bleeding* — 

He's — 

He's *giving*, something in him is *giving*, and it's not just blood, it's — 

It's everything — 

It's so bloody perfect — 

It's — 

*He's* rutting up against Daddy's furry belly like he just never *has* before, and Daddy is *reaming* him, taking him *over*, but — 

But he's *giving*, and Daddy is *taking* and giving — 

This — 

There's magic being shared, and Porthos sinks into it the way he just hasn't been able to since it was his Mum, and she was pouring her magic into him to protect him, wrapping it round and round him to keep him safe from everything and everyone trying to hurt them both. 

She'd be happy he's so happy now — 

She'd be happy he has someone to *love*. And *that* lets him tug himself free from the memories, lets him bring himself back to the present, to *Daddy*, who is lapping *feverishly* at Porthos's throat and *shaking* even as he *ruts* — 

"Daddy —" 

"*Fuck*." 

"Yeah, Daddy, *yeah* —" 

"Son —" 

"Daddy, I love *you* —" 

"Oh, fuck, son — son, I can't *stop*," Daddy says, and sounds almost anguished, almost *lost* — 

"Don't stop, don't ever stop, I need you, I need *this* —" 

*Daddy* whines and grips Porthos harder, licks him and licks him and shakes and shoves *in* — 

*In* — 

In so — 

Every thrust *slams* that knot against Porthos's pleasure-button, and Porthos is panting, groaning, *needing* — 

"I — I have to —" 

And Daddy bites him *again* — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

And this time it feels like the magic *leaps* up inside him, *pulses* all through him. He feels stronger, hungrier, more *alive* — 

(You are...) 

Daddy!

(You're — finally coming into your *power*. Fuck. *Fuck* —) 

Daddy, what — 

(Shh. Take this. Take all of this and *spend*,) Daddy says, and bites *deeper* — 

Porthos bucks and *grips* Daddy with his thighs — 

Bucks and *howls* — 

(Nothing. Nothing has ever felt — except one thing. My son. My *son*,) Daddy says, and grips Porthos's shoulders from the *back* — 

Holds him and *takes* — 

It feels so hot — 

So sweet and deep and — 

Porthos can only take one thrust — 

Two — 

He howls again and *spurts*, mind desperate and *scrambled* — 

He can't — 

He can't breathe or think or — 

He spurts again and howls *more*, bucking and *grinding* up against Daddy's furry belly — 

He needs it — 

He needs every last one of Daddy's fucking *violent* thrusts — 

He can't *stop* spurting, but — 

He also can't make *sense* of all the images in his mind. 

His mother —

Daddy grinning and lolling his tongue — 

Daddy *dancing* — with his mother?

But Daddy is still slamming in, still *having* him, still — 

Growling and panting and — 

It almost sounds like he wants to be *sobbing*, like — 

Like this is too *much* for him — 

Porthos wraps his arms around Daddy *tightly*, holds him and licks him — 

Daddy shudders and *shoves* — 

"NNH — love you, love you so much —" 

And that *was* a sob — 

Daddy's *clutching* him and *shuddering* — and spending, deep inside. 

So —

_And his Mum is young, healthy, happy — laughing and lolling *her* tongue._

_At Daddy, who is naked and wide-eyed and *hard* — and *stricken*-looking — on a *big* bed. "Amina-love —"_

_"Jean-*Armand*," she slurs, and *then* puts her tongue away. "Just what did you think you were going to do with *that*?"_

_"Well, I had a *few* thoughts about your cunt —"_

_"I just gave *birth*!"_

_"Days ago!"_

_Mum laughs *raucously*, throwing her head back and gripping her belly —_

_"Oh, fuck — fuck, are you about to — are there stitches —"_

_She splutters —_

Porthos gasps — 

Daddy — shudders. He's still clutching Porthos's shoulders — he releases them. 

And braces himself on his hands. 

And, after a moment, meets Porthos's gaze. His eyes are red, his cheeks are wet — 

He. 

"You — you didn't know." 

"No, son. Not until I bit you."

Porthos grunts and — "Somehow you — *how*?"

Daddy winces. "When I lost you and your mother — when *we* lost you — there was dark magic involved. Was she... was she able to *tell* you —" 

"She got sicker every time she tried to tell me *anything* — no, no, she..." 

And Daddy is looking at him — hungrily. 

It is and *isn't* a different kind of hunger than what Porthos has grown accustomed to. Porthos swallows and — doesn't let himself look away. 

Daddy winces. "Son... tell *me* what you want to talk about. Tell — or *ask* —" 

"Is it."

"Yes?"

"You're my — you're my father." 

Daddy shivers. "In every way that matters, son. I — I should have known —" 

"*Why* didn't you know? And what does that mean? Are you not my — but. She said that. My Mum. She said I had a *true* father." 

Daddy *grunts*. "Did she — did she — but I'll answer first. I didn't know because you were hidden from me. Your *blood*-father — the eldest son of the then-Marquis de Belgard — hired an assassin to kill you and your mother, instead of just putting her aside with a little consideration." 

"He — what? *Why*?" 

"I didn't ask him that question when I was stringing him up for it by his own intestines, son." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"But — we all knew he was under pressure from his family to end the 'affair' between himself and my Amina-love. And there's the fact that I had made no bones about humiliating him as often as possible once Amina and *I* became lovers." 

Porthos — stares. 

A drop of sweat patters down from Daddy's chest to his.

They're still bloody *tied* — 

"We will be for a while, yet, son," Daddy says, and smiles ruefully. 

"I *know* that — I mean. I know," Porthos says, and winces. "I don't mean to bite your head off." 

Daddy yips a shocked laugh. "*Porthos*. You're *allowed to be upset*." 

"Daddy, I *love* you —" 

"And I love *you*. But — we just got one hell of a shock. Let's not pretend we didn't, mm?" 

Porthos licks his lips and — nods. "Yes, Daddy." 

Daddy rumbles and reaches to pet him — and pauses.

"Do it. Please." 

Daddy nods and strokes his hair, his face — 

Porthos shivers — 

Daddy studies his eyes — but doesn't pause again. 

"You... where did the magic come in? I mean, my Mum told me that 'a bad man' had used dark magic to separate us from our family, and that I should always be careful and respectful around witches, and later Yejide — a death-mage who my Mum worked for before she got too sick, and who took care of us — told me that my mother had made a bad bargain with *another* death-mage, but no one ever told me *why*." 

Daddy nods and winces again — and another tear rolls down his cheek. "The assassin Belgard set after you was immune to earth-magic. Your mother had to fight him off with nothing but her dirty blade with you in her *arms*. She couldn't manage to kill him, she had no idea if Belgard would keep sending more people, she had no idea if Belgard would send people after her *guardians* —" 

"Or... you?" 

Daddy shows his *teeth*. "I — and my brothers — were out of the country. An action into Spanish territory. I couldn't get out of it, and — it seemed like it would be all right. A hardship to be away from my mate and our child, but nothing *bad*. By the time we were back, you and your mother had utterly disappeared — except for the sense I had of each of your life forces." 

"Oh... shit. You felt Mum die." 

"I felt her be *murdered*, son. The death-mage drained her of everything she *didn't* give you. I found him — and the assassin — too. Eventually." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "And strung them up by their intestines?" 

"No. I cut pieces off the assassin — I never found a solid name for him — until he laughed himself to death." 

"Uh." 

"With Guillou — the death-mage who had used a shade to attack your mother's *mind* until she was too confused *not* to accept the bargain —" 

Porthos snarls — 

And Daddy nods. "With him? I removed several pieces of his body — including an eye, an ear, and his foreskin —" 

"Um." 

"— while asking him *repeatedly* where *you* were —" 

"Right, but —" 

"— my ally and brother Jason Blood set him on fire — briefly —" 

"All right..." 

"And, eventually, I imprisoned him in my rapier. Where he'll scream for as close to a thousand years as I can manage." 

Porthos — licks his lips. 

And stares at Daddy. 

A *lot*. 

Daddy raises his eyebrows. 

"Daddy — we're still tied." 

"Yes?" 

"Your knot hasn't shrunk even a *little*." 

"No?"

"This is why no one let you interrogate anyone, isn't it." 

"Ah. Well. Yes, son." And Daddy goes back to petting him. 

Porthos stares a little harder. 

Daddy smiles ruefully. 

And that — Porthos laughs. Just... just lets himself laugh. 

There's hardly any of this that's actually funny, and there's a lot of it that wants to break his *heart* — 

There's just so *much* — 

Including the fact that laughing lets him really *feel* the way he's *tied* to his — father. 

The man who'd been lovers with his *mother*. 

The man who'd loved *her* and lost *her* and — 

"Wait. She was your *mate*?" 

Daddy smiles and cups Porthos's face. "We were bound, when she was pregnant with you, son. I know you're familiar with at least some kinds of blood-magery —" 

"I'm — I'm *familiar*, yeah —" 

"That's how my dog and I were introduced, and how she was introduced to *her* dog. Though she never got to shift..." And Daddy's expression is distant and hurt for long moments. 

Porthos swallows. "Yejide... she said the other death-mage — Guillou? — *blocked* her shift." 

Daddy growls low. "That's right, son. He wouldn't have been able to *imprison* her any other way. The animals inside shifters — and you're *going* to be one now, and I'll help you through it when the time comes — are too close to the All-Mother for that. Of course... there was a lot of tragedy which could have been averted if one or both of us had *gone* to the All-Mother in the first place." 

Porthos — takes that in. 

And breathes. 

And nods thoughtfully. "Why didn't you?" 

"We didn't know to, son," Daddy says, and offers another rueful smile. "We didn't know to, and we didn't know *how* to. There wasn't a lot of earth-magery in the rituals that bound your mother and me, and called our dogs to us. My Amina-love's guardians bypassed the All-Mother as much as they could, in an attempt not to *offend* Her. They didn't understand that they never could have done that by giving Her two new children," he says, and pushes his fingers through Porthos's hair. 

It's soothing enough that Porthos eventually just — closes his eyes. 

It's *grounding*. 

It's *wonderful* —

(It's yours, whenever you want it.) 

And Porthos gets an *inescapable* image of Daddy breaking off addressing Louis to scratch behind his ears or something —

(Nonsense, son. I can do two things at once.) 

Porthos splutters and opens his eyes again — 

And Daddy is searching him again. 

"You see her in me. Now, I mean." 

Daddy licks his lips — and nods. "There are so many things —" He growls. "I know perfectly well that we were blocked. I know you were *hidden* from my *eyes*. I know the *mechanism* of it. But I still can't believe..." 

"Yeah, I — but." 

"Mm?" 

"You said — before. You said you were going to talk to me about your past." 

"I was going to tell you about this, too. Of course I was. You *needed* to know that I was still grieving for the son I'd lost a generation ago, especially *now*." 

"Oh, Daddy..." 

Daddy smiles wryly. "It wouldn't have broken the spell." 

"What. What do you *mean* —" 

"Blood, son. It needed *blood*. Blood to seal the bond between your mother and me — among all *three* of us. Blood to seal the fuck-awful bargain your mother was forced to make. Blood to free us." 

"So... you could have told me..." 

"I *would* have told you." 

"We would have talked about — about *all* of this —" 

"And known nothing. Even if we used names. They would've... glanced off our hearing. Off our *comprehension*." 

Porthos growls low and — flat. *Animal*. 

Daddy's ears twitch — and so does his cock. 

Porthos *stops* growling and *looks* at Daddy — 

Daddy... looks sheepish. 

"Right, no, it makes perfect sense for that to get you hot —" 

"Son. Stop being fair." 

"Daddy —" 

"*Stop*." 

Porthos inhales *sharply* — and blushes. "I... don't know if I can do that, Daddy." 

Daddy cocks his head to the side and studies him for a long moment... and then nods. "I suppose you can't. There's wasn't much that was fair about your childhood." 

"No, Daddy —" 

"So when you *could* make something fair — you had to." 

"*Yes*." 

"You *needed* to." 

"Yes, I — yeah. I did. I *do*." 

Daddy nods slowly. "I'll remember that," he says, taking his hand from Porthos's hair and cupping Porthos's face, instead. "My beautiful boy. My big, sweet prince." 

"Fuck, Daddy —" 

"Shh. Just a moment, son." 

Porthos nods and just — turns to lick Daddy's palm. 

Daddy growls softly. "My — no. I need to know, son. I need to know... if I'm giving you time. If I'm giving you time *away* from me." 

It's *tempting* to say something about the fact that they're still *tied* — 

That Porthos is stuffed so tight that he isn't even *leaking* — but. 

That's not even close to what Daddy is asking. 

Porthos licks Daddy's hand again — 

Again — 

"Son..." 

He nibbles the heel of Daddy's palm — 

And Daddy *growls* and brings his other hand right back to Porthos's shoulder. 

Pinning him again. 

*Then* Porthos can look at him, and meet his hot and *wild* gaze. "I'm yours, Daddy." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I belong right here. Right at your side." 

Daddy growls — and croons. "I've needed you for so *long*..." 

"Me? Or the babe you lost?" 

"Do you really think you would've grown into someone *else*?" 

"I don't know, Daddy. I *can't* know. And neither can you —" 

"Wait. I do know this: You're exactly the kind of man I would've done everything in my power to make a part of my pack all those years ago, no matter *what*, and you're always going to be my *son*. I *don't* need you to choose which of those is most important to *you*." 

Porthos — breathes. And nods. "Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy." 

"Oh, son... oh, son. I'm going to make everything right for you. You'll see."

"And you'll let me make everything right for you?" 

"I'll definitely let you breathe and exist, yes." 

Porthos snorts. "*Daddy*."

Daddy grins — and it turns soft on his face. "I love you. I love you." 

Porthos blushes and smiles. "I love you, too, Daddy."


	4. A ghostly life to the left of this one.

Treville rests on his back in the bed, Porthos a warm, heavy, *solid* weight half on top of him. 

He's holding Treville tight with his head resting on Treville's chest and his arm wrapped around Treville's waist and one of his *legs* pinning Treville's — 

He seems to think Treville plans on going somewhere. 

(Can't take chances, Daddy.) 

And he's *not* dozing. 

(Not anymore,) Porthos says, and yawns — 

And *kisses* Treville's chest — 

"Did you sleep?" 

"Mm, no. I was too busy sniffing your sweaty hair." 

Porthos yawns again — and smacks him. "Don't make me want to bathe, Daddy. You know that'll make us both sad." 

Treville snickers — and pauses. 

And *thinks*. 

And — 

"Yes, I *do* like to bathe, and you *did* hear me saying that I liked having water to bathe in pretty much any time I wanted it —" 

"Yes, and —" 

"And now you've *bitten* me, Daddy, and there's a bloody great dog inside me who has *opinions* about all that water." 

Treville sighs happily. "Let's get positively *rank* this holiday." 

Porthos rolls onto his side and grins down at him. "Absolutely. Your staff can dump us in a horse trough before it's time to go back." 

"Hm. If they can catch us." 

Porthos snickers — 

And Treville reaches up to cup his face — 

To pull him down for a kiss — 

And another — 

And another after that — 

He *licks* — 

"Mm, yeah, I —" And Porthos licks him all over his face. 

Treville shivers and *holds* his boy — 

His son. 

His *son*. 

(Yours, Daddy.) 

Treville laughs softly. "A part of me only wants to send a rider to track down Athos in whatever dive he's haunting." 

"I... what — oh. He's your godson." 

"He's your *brother*, son. He — Laurent would've been *your* godfather, and Athos knows it." 

Porthos blinks. "That's... right, that feels like... like I've lived a whole other ghostly life, *just* beyond where I can see." 

Treville nods and strokes down to Porthos's magnificent shoulders. "You were with me, in my dreams." 

Porthos raises an eyebrow. 

Treville coughs — "Not like this, son." 

"No...?"

"I... can absolutely see why you're asking that question," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "Perhaps I was simply blind to myself." 

Porthos leans in and licks Treville's mouth. "Maybe that ghostly me would've crawled into your big bed one night, Daddy..."

Treville shivers. "Looking for... comfort?" 

"Looking for everything you could give him." 

Treville pushes a hand up into Porthos's hair — 

Tugs and pulls — 

"There's not one thing I wouldn't give you, son." 

Porthos smiles. "I know."

end.


End file.
